The Golden Hope. Robert H. Fuller
mistress, there's a beautiful butterfly! Oh, please, may I catch him?" cried one of the little girls.
"Hush, chatterbox," said Artemisia; "come and help me here."
"Ouch, that awful thorn! Look, mistress, how my finger bleeds," the other girl said, holding up her small brown hand.
"Will you never end your nonsense?" the young woman asked in affected despair. "See, Proxena, we have not half finished."
"Don't be angry with us, mistress; see who's coming!" Proxena cried, taking her wounded finger from her mouth and pointing with it toward the house.
Clearchus must have ridden fast to arrive so soon after leaving his friends. Artemisia, hastily plucking a half-blown rose, went forward to meet him, while the little slave girls remained behind, peeping slyly with sidelong glances and whispering to each other while they pretended to busy themselves with their work.
"Greeting, Artemisia, my Life!" Clearchus said, taking her hands in his.
"Greeting, Clearchus; I am glad to see thee," she replied.
"How beautiful thou art and how fortunate am I, my darling," the young man said radiantly. "Dost thou love me, Artemisia?"
"Thou knowest well that I do, Clearchus," she answered reproachfully. "Why dost thou ask?"
"For the joy of hearing thee say it once more," he said, laughing. "There is nothing the Gods can give that could be sweeter or more precious to me, and to add the last touch to my happiness, Chares and Leonidas came this morning and have promised to stay until our wedding."
They had been strolling toward the grove at the edge of the meadow, where a bench of carved stone, overhung with trailing vines, was set in the shade in such a position as to permit its occupants to look out over the garden and the river. They sat down side by side and Clearchus slipped his arm about Artemisia's waist. Evidently, with the subtle sense of a lover, he detected a lack of responsiveness, for he bent forward and gazed anxiously into her face. He saw that it was troubled.
"What is the matter, my dearest?" he asked in sudden alarm.
She hesitated for a moment. "Oh, Clearchus, I fear that we are too happy," she said at last in reply.
"Why do you say that?" he asked, drawing her closer to him. "Why should any of the Gods wish us harm? We have not failed in paying them honor, and we have transgressed in nothing."
Artemisia hid her face in her hands and her head drooped against his shoulder. He held her still closer and kissed the soft coils of her hair, awaiting an explanation.
"What is it, Artemisia?" he asked quietly. "You are tired and nervous and overwrought, and some foolish fancy has crept into your heart to trouble you. Tell me, my dearest; thou canst have no sorrow that is not mine as well as thine."
"Clearchus, my husband," she said, without moving from her position or lifting her face, "thou art strong and I am but a weak girl. Whatever may come, I shall always be thankful that thou didst love me. I am thine—heart and mind, body and spirit, here and in the hereafter—forever."
"Why dost thou speak so, my Soul?" Clearchus asked in alarm. "What has happened? Surely we shall be married at the new moon."
"I do not know, Clearchus—all that I know is that I love thee and shall love thee always. A warning from the Gods has been sent to me."
She lifted her face and clasped her hands in her lap. Her eyes were wet and her lips were tremulous as those of a helpless child who awaits a blow.
"What was it, my Life?" Clearchus asked gently.
"I was in a strange house," she replied, looking straight before her as though she could see the things that she described. "It was a house of many rooms, some filled with lights and some so dark I could not tell what was in them. I heard the sound of voices, of laughter, and of weeping, but I could see nobody. Thou wert there, I knew, and I was seeking thee with my heart full of terror; for something told me I would not find thee. It was dreadful—dreadful, Clearchus!"
She paused and clung to him for a moment as though in fear of being torn from his side.
"I do not know how long I wandered through passages and chambers," she resumed, "but at last I reached a corridor that had rows of pillars on either side. At the end was a crimson curtain, beyond which men and women were talking. As I stood hesitating in the empty corridor, suddenly I heard thy voice among the rest. I could not mistake it, Clearchus. Joy filled my heart. Thou didst not know I was there nor what peril I was in. I felt that I had but to lift the curtain—thou wouldst see me and I would be saved. I ran forward, crying out to thee; but before I reached the curtain, rough men came from between the pillars and thrust me back, drowning my voice with shouting and laughter. I threw myself on my knees before them and prayed them not to stop me. They answered in words that I could not understand. My heart was breaking, Clearchus! The light beyond the crimson curtain grew dim, and outside I could hear a roaring like a great storm. The pillars were shaken and the walls crumbled, and I woke crying thy name."
The young man's face had grown unusually grave and thoughtful as he listened to the recital of the dream. No man or woman of his time who believed in anything ever thought of doubting that the visions of sleep were divine communications to mortals. Statesmen directed the course of nations and generals planned their campaigns in accordance with the interpretation of these revelations.
"What does it mean, Clearchus? You are wiser than I," Artemisia said anxiously. "If I am separated from thee, I shall die."
"The men who halted you seemed to be barbarians?" Clearchus asked thoughtfully.
"Thus they seemed," she replied. "I could not understand their speech, and their clothes were not our fashion."
"I know not what it means, Artemisia," Clearchus said at last. "We are in the hands of the Gods. I shall ask the protection of Artemis and offer her a sacrifice. To-morrow we must be married. I do not dare to wait for the new moon, for I must be near you to protect you. Then, whatever may come, we will meet it together."
"Perhaps the dream was meant for me alone," Artemisia said tenderly. "I cannot bear to bring you into danger."
"Hush, Artemisia!" Clearchus said reprovingly. "I would rather a thousand times die with thee than live without thee."
With a sigh, she let her head rest on his shoulder.
"I care not what may happen so that thou art with me," she said; "then I can feel no fear."
"Artemisia," Clearchus said suddenly, "go not out again to-day. I shall tell Philox to guard thee well until to-morrow. Hast thou told Melissa of the dream?"
"No, for I wished to tell thee first and she is so easily frightened," Artemisia said.
"Then say nothing to her about it," the young man replied.
One of the little slave girls ran up to them at this moment and stood before them, twisting her fingers together and waiting to be spoken to.
"What is it, Proxena?" Artemisia asked.
"The morning meal is waiting, mistress," said the child, and sped away again.
CHAPTER III
ARISTON LAYS A PLOT
Ariston, uncle of Clearchus and formerly guardian of his fortune, sat at his work-table before a mass of papyri closely written with memoranda and accounts. His house stood by itself in a quarter of the city that had once been fashionable but now was occupied chiefly by the poorer class of citizens. Its front was without windows and its stone walls were yellowed and stained with age. Its seclusion seemed to be emphasized by the bustle of life that surrounded it and in which it had no part.
The